The acid of this incertitude had disintegrated his nerve; and in Canton had come the smash. The little pucker in her brows became more perceptible. “Well, you certainly did very well at tea,” she remarked. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. He looked like a French boy soldier she had once glimpsed marching towards his death in one of the battles they would later call the Hundred Years War.
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